


Flame of a Candle

by JonStark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-17 03:02:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 22,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2294420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonStark/pseuds/JonStark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Tywin’s chambers of the Hand were the same as her father’s had been, and that thought upset Sansa all the more. She was to be taken by her husband in the same bed Sansa had cowered in for a week once they took her father as prisoner and the household fell into ruin. It was the same bed her father had slumbered and rested in... she felt grateful that the dim candles would not show her fear to her empowering husband who towered over Sansa, glaring at Sansa stare into the flame of a candle as if she was the most fascinating thing in the Seven Kingdoms.</p><p>COMPLETE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

She had seldom conversed with the Old Lion of Lannister since he saved them all from Stannis Baratheon’s army on the Blackwater. In fact, Sansa recollected as King Joffrey walked her to her betrothed, a thin smirk spreading over his puffy pink lips, she might never _once_ conversed with him. That fact had never troubled her until today when she walked through the Sept to Tywin Lannister: her husband.

Sansa stared at him now: tall and overpowering, his golden hair receding with age and the bright green eyes that glimmered against the torchlight as if all the gold from the Westerlands were mined in them. He was solemn, silent and looked as thrilled for this union as his new young wife. Most men his age, Margaery had told Sansa, would be envious and lustful for a wife as young and beautiful and old blooded as her, yet Sansa failed to feel honoured by such a man despite his immense wealth and power. If he was young, handsome like Ser Jaime and not at war with her family, there could potentially be a part of Sansa where she would not be as frightened to wed him as she was.

The Septon’s strong incense overpowered Sansa as she stood before her husband who glared down at her like a lion judging her pray. She felt uneasy under his gaze the whole time the Septon said his sermons. Septa Mordane had once told Sansa a thousand years ago that wedding a high Lord was the sum of every decent lady’s ambition. _You must do your duty when the time comes: to serve him, be a mother to his children, run his household, keep him happy, please him._ Sansa knew all too well what was to come tonight, the thought of him entering her, spilling his seed in her was enough to make Sansa retch her entire life’s quantity of food. Yet she feared to disobey him or displease him – what else could she do tonight if not that?

So Sansa sang her pretty little words as Lord Tywin exchanged his. If anybody thought there was any love or likeness or fondness between the new man and wife, they would be the biggest fool in the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa liked Lord Tywin as much as she liked Joffrey and Cersei. The vows meant nothing to either of them, they were words and that was all. Neither of it meant anything to them.

Lord Tywin removed Sansa’s pearl white maiden’s cloak and replaces it with the crimson one for House Lannister. Sansa covers herself in it, regardless if it is Lannister or Stark, she feels safe and secure in the cloak, wishing she could hide away in it from the rest of the world and _him_ , primarily her new husband.

The ride from the sept to the Red Keep was a blur to Sansa as she sat atop her mare, riding close beside Lord Tywin but in absolute silence. The peasants flocked to see the new man and wife, seemed somewhat displeased at both Lady and Lord’s negligence to amuse the crowd – but that soon vanished when they saw Lady Margaery and King Joffrey riding behind them and began to cheer their names as they passed. It was quite possibly the only thing Sansa was ever grateful to Joffrey for.

Music came from every corner of the Great Hall as courses were served to man and wife, the King and Queen Regent, the Ladies and Lords. Sansa ate not a mouthful in fear she could not stomach it. When asked to dance, she politely refused, excusing that she had a poor head due to her excitement to the marriage. Once or twice when she said this, she heard Lord Tywin mutter something or scoff, but sense her lies at that. First she thought he would comment to her, but he did no such thing, he let her sing her lies and sip her wine as he ate his food and shared the latter with Sansa. Lord Tywin rejected dances too but did not need to give any reason as to why he did. He did speak to Sansa after a while, which only frightened her more.

“You may dance, Lady Sansa. It is your wedding as much as it is mine; you shall not wed for many years yet. Take pleasure in it.”

She faltered for words. “I-I tire, my Lord Tywin.”

They said nothing for the duration of the evening; Sansa dared not even glance at her new husband who sat there in his maroon doublet and darker clothes, watching the dancing and the singing take place before them. Sansa so badly wanted to weep, to express her emotion in a way that _someone_ in the crowd would take pity on her and help her. No one did and no one would and before Sansa could invent an escape, Lord Tywin rose and the crowd fell silent.

“We are to bed.”

He did not expect them to carry each off and undress; he affirmed that in his tone of voice. Instead he took Sansa’s arm and she pushed back her chair, politely and delicately taking the arm he offered. She could see every eye in the room on her, and every eye in the room secretly pity this poor young girl go off and be bedded by a man she detested with all her heart. No one spoke up for her though. No one ever would.

Lord Tywin’s chambers of the Hand were the same as her father’s had been, and that thought upset Sansa all the more. She was to be taken by her husband in the same bed Sansa had cowered in for a week once they took her father as prisoner and the household fell into ruin. It was the same bed her father had slumbered and rested in... she felt grateful that the dim candles would not show her fear to her empowering husband who towered over Sansa, glaring at Sansa stare into the flame of a candle as if she was the most fascinating thing in the Seven Kingdoms.

“I entrust your Septa told you about this night, if not she, then your mother.”

Sansa was barely able to shake her head. Several long moments of silence passed between them until she realised he could not see her response, only hear it. “I – I _no_. Mother never did.”

She was sick and she was dizzy and she so wished that with just one small little gust of wind or the pinch of a finger, Sansa would vanish into nothingness like the flame of a candle.

The new Lady of Lannister heard footsteps and she could feel her husband’s breath hot on her neck. He touched her shoulders, the palms of his hands running down her forearms. She attempted to ignore it, tightened her eyes to stop the tears from spilling out of her eyes.

“Get to bed,” he snarled.

She did as commanded with the guidance of her husband pushing her across the room. He halted her at the side of the bed, reaching around her waist and fumbling with the clasps of her dress. Sansa allowed him to do it; she permitted him to struggle and to show him it would not be easy to humiliate her as if he had once believed. Eventually he did undress her, her breasts spilling out from her golden dress and embarrassed, she stared at her Lord husband’s feet. She didn’t want to see the look on his face, the lust or pleasure or disappointment he felt. He didn’t touch her either, but unfastened his breeches and stepped out of them, his cock pressed against her thigh as she turned her over in bed, her fingers clasping for the sheets as he inserted himself into a bone dry Sansa and thrust out again.

Almost screaming in pain, she stumbled from her knees and sank into her bed. This did not faze her Lord husband but kept thrusting in and out of her. Due to his age, he did not last long, panting he spilled his stick seed inside his Lady wife and stepped away as if taking his wife’s maidenhead was as common as sums or reading. Sansa shuffled on the bed, curling herself into a ball, her face against the pillow away from Lord Tywin. Words could not describe how Sansa felt, but she could feel that she was in pain, that there was uncomfortable stickiness between her thighs she was too frightened to clean in case it insulted Lord Tywin. His seed was mixed with her blood, she had been taken without love or care or even a second glance after he’d thrust one last time into her.

“We shall continue this until I get you with child,” he reported. “Once at evening should suffice until your moon’s blood. You shall come to me nightly that is understood. You shall return to your chambers now. You will come seek me out on the morrow at nightfall.”

She was supposed to leave? Staying in her husband’s bed had been a terrifying prospect after the bedding, and for some reason she was grateful she had the permission to leave only his chambers and could sob in the safety of her own bedchambers. She said not another word to him.


	2. ii

Her handmaidens permitted Sansa to sleep in the following morning, but she would have much preferred to have been woken. In truth, she did not sleep; only lay silently on her bed, listening to the footsteps above her chambers, the shouts from the yard and the birds outside her window and the shakes of her sobs all sang through the night. Shae came to her before noon with food to break her fast on, water to fill the tub with. Sansa would be grateful to have all of Tywin removed from her before the proceeding day.

“You slept a long time, my Lady,” Shae noted. “The entirety of the day was wasted on you.”

In truth Sansa thought the night was longer than usual. If she had missed the following night, why had Lord Tywin not woken her or somebody? She began to fear what had been put in the wine she and her husband drank all night... a sedative to put her to sleep perhaps? She longed to ask Shae, the only handmaiden she trusted; the others were all spies belonging to Queen Cersei, so perhaps this was why Shae and Sansa were seldom left alone except for when Sansa asked.

The seed and bloody were dry and stinking between her thighs, a strong dose of lavender oils were needed to remove the smell from Sansa but she did not mind entirely. She enjoyed the familiar voices of the girls gossiping and exchanging stories. One of the girls was to be wed within the fortnight to a prospering squire and another revealed that she and her husband were trying to get with babe, _still_ trying, after two years of marriage.

Sansa didn’t want to give Lord Tywin babes, but if that were to befall her, she would not have to give herself to him anymore and perhaps she would be granted more freedom amongst the city. Could she love Lord Tywin’s child? A brother or sister for the Kingslayer, the Imp and the Queen Regent, a child that would live a dangerous life: child to both Lannister _and_ Stark, an heir to Casterly Rock _and_ Winterfell if something were to befall Robb (which Sansa prayed for the opposite every night). Sansa would not be a mother to the child, but a wet nurse and a womb for nine moons. The child would be Lord Tywin’s to name, control and teach. 

Sansa left her bedchambers for the first time since the wedding that noon after picking at the food she would break her fast on. She was clueless how to spend her day, too embarrassed to converse with anybody or even walk the gardens; Sansa had every mind just to lock herself away in her chambers. _No_. _No I am not weak. They put a cloak on me and named me Lannister, but I am no lion or wolf to cower away in the den._ The new Lady of the West faked her confidence through the castle, escorted by a new pair of Lannister guards she had not seen before and wished to go to the gardens.

She sat on her own for a while, watching down at the coast of Blackwater Bay at the ships and the traders on the docks. The guards would not permit her to sit on the edge, so she had somebody bring her a chair to sit on. With her back to the guards who were a fair distance away, a jump off the rocks and to her death would be a good solution to her problems. Then she thought about mother and Robb and their war, and how if she ended her own life her father’s death would be in vain. Then there was the small possibility of life inside her. Strangely enough that was a reason for her not to throw herself to her death. But any child of hers would be a child of _Lannister_ and the west and Casterly Rock and Lord Tywin’s. Perhaps death was better for the babe and her than life as a lion.

Her thoughts were not long in her mind, when she heard footsteps behind her, bows and curtsies and courtesies, Sansa heard the shrilling voice of King Joff. She tensed in her chair. _No, he cannot hurt me._ She was – what to him? His _Grandmother_. Joff was older than Sansa. Sansa was younger by many years than Jaime and Cersei and Tyrion and they were now her good children. Would that earn her some respect, or would she be made a mockery of now by her own family? Sansa suggested the latter.

“ _Grandmother_ ,” Joff laughed in his mocking voice.

Sansa rose. “Your Grace.”

He was dressed in fine lilac silk and a gold doublet, garnished with neck pieces and gemstones and _lions_. Everywhere Sansa looked, people who were not technically Lannister’s – like herself, Joffrey, Tommen – were dressed as a lion. Didn’t the King and Prince find it demeaning, that their own house was overshadowed by their mother’s? Sansa had heard the rumours; it was all anybody talked about for a time, you would have thought that in order to keep it a secret that Cersei would instruct that every ounce of Lannister be stripped from her children. Sansa mused on that for a while as she waited for Joff to speak.

“What was it like to be _fucked_ by a man older than your father?”

“Your Grandfather was kind, your Grace, nothing less.”

“Did you imagine it was me when he took your maidenhead? Did you scream out my name at your peak when he spilled his rotten, stinking seed inside your dry cunt?” Sansa said nothing as befitted the situation, which only angered Joff more. “Well? _Speak_ to me you ungrateful whore.”

“I am loyal to your Lord Grandfather, your Grace. I would not wish to displease him how you describe.”

“You’re as boring and dry as that _thing_ between your legs... No matter, when his seed quickens inside you’ll be more fun to fuck.”

She kept quiet, not daring to retort to Joffrey’s taunts. She was used to them by now, so much so they stopped affecting her. Sansa was a fool to think that now she was a Lannister she’d be respected. In their eyes she was still the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and the brother of King Robb Stark: traitors to the realm. In her eyes, however, they were heroes.

“Mother wants to talk to you,” Joff announced in a tiresome voice. “Get back to the castle.”

“Of course your Grace.”

Sansa lingered, hoping that Joffrey would stalk off by now, but he seemed to insist he would walk her back to the castle with their guards. He did not ask for her arm, nor did he attempt to converse with her again. The silence shared between them was enough shock Sansa with fright but she kept wondering what the Queen Regent would want with her.

Joff took Sansa to the Queen’s chambers. The guards announced Sansa was at the door and she was permitted entrance. Cersei was alone on a lounger, the doors to the veranda wide open, and her golden hair alive in the wind. Sansa decided that if she had a daughter she would want her to be as beautiful as Queen Cersei but nothing of her nature. Cersei told Sansa to join her on the lounger, and she obliged.

“You slept through the previous day,” Cersei noted.

“Yes your Grace, I was feeling ill.”

Cersei scoffed. “Is that what you call it? No matter. My father is not inclined to discuss these matters with me nor Tyrion, it has befallen to me to ask you the question and affirm that you did, in fact, do your duty as a wife to her husband on her wedding night?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

The Queen smiled. “Would you care for wine, Sansa?” Usually, Sansa would reject wine, but this time she accepted and the Queen poured two cups: one for herself and one for Sansa. “My brother Tyrion refused to wed you, it befell Lord Tywin to do it himself. Who would you have rather wed, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa chose her words carefully. “It would have been an honour to wed Lord Tyrion.”

“You realise that any son of yours will be given Casterly Rock? Ignore the lies my father tells you, it is the west the child will be given, not Winterfell. Jaime cannot inherit and father would rather see the mines run dry than give me repulsive brother the claim to his land. I pray you give him a son. Do you pray for sons?”

“I shall do when I visit the Godswood.”

“Realise you shall have no word in what you call your child,” though Sansa knew this already. “There will be no Eddard or Brandon or Robb. Lord Tywin shall name your child, raise your child and teach your child. You are solely for his use to produce a respective heir. Find that you give him a beast like Lord Tyrion and you may not survive for birthing bed. Is that understood?”

“I am excited to give Lord Tywin heirs.”

“Lannister’s are fertile and fair, as are the Tully’s, it seems to be, and you are more a Tully than Stark you should know. Give him a child soon and he will be grateful for it. Your life at King’s Landing might even be more enjoyable. Please him, and come a time we capture your mother and brother you would be permitted to see them again before their execution,” Cersei smiled sickly. “Now drink your wine, Lady Lannister, for the wine is the sweetest encounter you will have for the foreseeable future.”

 

 


	3. iii

Night after night, Sansa would lay awake at night waiting for her Lord husband to take her.

Within a week, the pain subsided. He would take her from behind every night, spilling his seed inside of her, dressing himself and returning to his chambers in the Tower of Hand, leaving his wife awake in her bed and filled with gnawing anxiety. He would never speak with her during the day, would never look upon her face or treat her with kindness at night. It was as routinely for him as a meeting of the small council. All it was to him was duty.

Within a moon’s turn, Sansa discovered that she was with child, but she seemed to be the last person in the castle to be informed. The small council knew a week before Sansa, Lord Tywin learning from the Queen Regent a week even before them from one of Sansa’s handmaidens. She must have detected something amiss when Lord Tywin stopped visiting her at night and when she was no longer given wine at dinner, but there were more occupying things on Sansa’s mind than not drinking wine or her husband fucking her nightly.

He summoned her to his solar to tell her that she was with child. She wondered what had happened to have been taken to her husband so early in the day. Was something wrong? Was there news of Robb or mother? Was the war over, could Sansa go home, could Sansa and Lord Tywin’s marriage have truly united Stark and Lannister? Gods did Sansa hope so; high was the yearning inside her to see her family again.

“Lady Sansa,” Lord Tywin’s chill voice came from behind his writing desk. “Sit.”

She did as commanded. “You summoned me, my Lord.”

“Yes. It has been reported that you are with child. I assume you knew nothing of this.”

His words shocked her. How could he knew before her? Surely Sansa would know?

“I-I did not know, my Lord.”

“You are six weeks gone according to Grand Maester Pycelle.”

She thought of the life that grew inside of her, the tiny little babe – no bigger than a fingernail – had taken deep root inside her belly. She would be carrying him or her for the next eight moons. That was a long time. In that time her Uncle Edmure would wed the young girl from the Twins, Joff would wed Margaery, Dorne would come to King’s Landing for the wedding. The war could be won by the time Sansa delivered this babe. She imagined a world where this babe would not grow up with two families desiring to kill each other, and just with a family that loved it. She thought of its life at Winterfell with Robb’s children. They would love Sansa’s babe regardless of who the father was. Perhaps she could love it too if it wasn’t thrown into a pit of lions. Perhaps she could love it anyway; it was her child. _Born for a Lannister castle._

“Needless to say I will not be visiting your bedchambers again. If you should give me a son, we shall wait until we attempt to try more. A daughter on the other hand will require prompt conception. Are we understood?” Sansa nodded. “But I would not blame you for what our child will be; you have proven to be fertile enough to give me one child.”

“I shall pray to the Gods I give you many sons, my Lord.”

There was a ghost of a smile on Lord Tywin’s face. He shuffled his pen and parchment around on his desk and handed it to Sansa.

“Write to your family. Tell them the news.”

“M-My Lord?”

“I shall inspect the letter once you have written it to ensure you have written nothing to doubt our protection over you. Write to your mother; tell her you are with child. Consider this privilege a reward for your services to House Lannister. You have done well.”

She took the pen from her husband. “C-Could I ask for a reply?”

“You may,” Lord Tywin agreed. “You may read it, also, and send another letter once our babe has been born if we are still at war.”

It was a privilege to write to her mother – Sansa would not doubt that. It was kind of Lord Tywin to allow her, but it should not have been necessary to require his permission to write to her own family. She did not mention this though, but stayed in Lord Tywin’s solar and wrote a letter to her mother. Lord Tywin read it himself, called for a raven and sent it flying. Sansa watched it soar off with her words.

“Know this is your only letter, and sometimes ravens do not make it to their required destination.”

Sansa knew that. She would not fool herself to have high hopes that her mother would actually read the words she wrote. Still, it gave her closure to stand and watch at Lord Tywin’s solar window at the raven soaring ceaselessly into the sky. They were thousands of leagues apart, but the same stars still burned above them, they rode under the same clouds in the sky and felt the same sun bore heat down onto their bodies. They were still connected. They were still Stark’s of Winterfell.


	4. iv

Panic shock through Sansa the first morning she woke up to nausea.

It was three days after she wrote to her mother, three days of increasing anxiety at the words not being reached yet and three days without a reply. In those three days, Sansa’s pregnancy was almost unnoticeable, but on the third day when she woke up with a mad dash to her chamber pot and vomiting all of last night’s supper, she had fear in her which frightened that she may have lost or there was something wrong with the babe.

She could not allow it to happen. She could not allow herself to lose this child. If she lost it... all hope of a better life would be shattered. Lord Tywin could claim her barren, unfit to carry children and send her away, cast her aside and make her unwanted. Worse of he could kill her if she was of no worth to the realm.

By the fourth day and still no letter from her mother, Sansa was visited by Lord Tyrion. When he came to visit her, Sansa had begun her dinner in solitude. Her dinner had changed now; Lord Tywin always sent her clean, healthy food that would help her and the babe (though he cared more for the babe than his Lady wife), they were foods like spinach and red meat: all bland and tasteless, but if they had a benefit on the babe, would reduce the chances of miscarriage or stillbirth or deformity, it was worth eating tasteless food for nine moons.

Lord Tyrion entered her solar and apologised for interrupting her at dinner.

“It is fine, my Lord. Would you care to join me?”

For a few moments it seemed as if Lord Tyrion would reject the offer, but he graciously accepted. “Red meat, leafy green vegetables and dried fruits, my father must be _very_ worried about having another dwarf for a child.”

Sansa was unsure of how to respond. “The olives are very nice, my Lord.”

“Tyrion,” Lord Tyrion corrected. “But just don’t expect me to call _you_ mother.”

It still made Sansa cringe; Lord Tyrion, Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime were her good _children_. Joff, Tommen and Myrcella were her Grandchildren. Lord Tyrion could see the discomfort on his father’s wife’s face, and apologised quickly.

“I know you did not choose to be in this situation, Sansa, but it better my father than I. Lord Tywin is powerful, rich and _old_. You will surely outlive him, free to wed again with the power of Casterly Rock and your children. This is not the worst position.”

Did the Imp think he could sway Sansa with his words? Why had he come to her, who had sent him? Was it the Queen or Lord Tywin himself? Lord Tywin had already wrapped a cloak around her shoulders and put a babe inside of her. He did not need his son to come to her and assure her that this marriage was a good thing; she had too many ties to House Lannister now.

“It is an honour to wed Lord Tywin-”

“-Sansa, do not lie to me. I have a great skill in detecting false words and yours are not too difficult to tell truth from lies. You want to be wed to my father as much as I want to see Joff on the throne. He is a repulsive boy, rude and not fit to be a King: a true wicked little monster. Now do you promise only to speak the truth to me?” She did not know if she could trust him; he was still a Lannister. He was not the worst Lannister, but still a Lannister. “We are family now, as much as you hate it you must accept that you are my Goodmother as I am your Goodson. You must learn to trust your family.”

“I do trust my family.”

“The Lannisters, my Lady, not the Starks.”

Sansa shifted uncertainly. “Trust everybody in my family with my words? Queen Cersei, King Joffrey?”

“Not them. You can trust me. Believe me Sansa; everything you say to me will be in confidence. I hate my father as much as you hate him. There must be a lot you want to get off your chest.”

“What if I can’t give him sons?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. You have a babe in you already after only one month of marriage-”

“-He said he would take me on the birthing bed if I did not give him a son. Pardon my interruption.”

“He would not; even my father knows how dangerous and unproductive that would be.”

She was still not convinced. “What if I can never give him sons?”

“His age is a problem, but there are other men, Sansa. There are other men who are young and fertile and much more likely to give you sons.”

“I am loyal to House Lannister-”

“-Stop lying to me, Sansa, when I am trying to help you.” How could she trust him as her confidante? “If the Gods are truly cruel and they take that babe from inside of you, and if my father caught word of it, there would be no helping you. He does not mean to give you more than one son, despite what he says. He’ll cast you aside and return you to your family once Jaime has returned to King’s Landing. He’ll call it a reward. Has he given you a reward for your services yet?”

Her heart caught in her mouth. “He allowed me to write to my mother.”

“Another letter will follow shortly after the birth of a son and he’ll return you to your brother and mother if they return and stay in the north and release their hostages. Does that surprise you?”

It did. Even if Lord Tywin made these plans, Joff would never let her leave. He enjoyed having her around too much; he enjoyed using her as a toy to mock and break and destroy and humiliate in front of his court. Could she believe the words of Lord Tyrion?

“The sooner you give him a son, the sooner you can go home to your mother. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Nodding: “I must give him a son. It does not have to be his.”

Lord Tyrion gave her a smile, showing his ugly array of yellow and wonky teeth. He was even uglier when he smiled; it gave a terrifying look about him with his oversized head and tiny body. He looked like a monster in a storybook and she fretted that _he_ was the man in reference to giving Lord Tywin a child.

“Clever girl.”


	5. v

“I believe congratulations are in order.”

Sansa was in the Throne room, present at one of King Joffrey’s court sessions. She would always linger up in the dais at the side of the room with the other ladies of court. They enjoyed attending to learn the gossip and the names of the handsome Lords and their sons and squires they would see in King’s Landing. Sansa’s presence on the other hand, was required due to being the wife of the Hand of the King. In truth, court did not bore her as much as it once used to; it was mostly about the war. It was the only way she could find out where her mother and brother were in the Seven Kingdoms. She would learn which holdfasts they’d taken and what inns they would sleep in. She yearned to hear of a sighting of Bran and Rickon and Arya, but she knew she never would. They were most likely dead. She was smart enough to comprehend that.

Lady Margaery – soon to be Queen Margaery in a matter of months – approached her as the King dismissed court. Sansa seldom saw Margaery anymore; Margaery busied herself with organising her wedding while Sansa preoccupied herself with her own. Sansa’s babe was due within the same moon of Joff and Margaery’s wedding and she hoped that the babe would be birthed before the great wedding; it would give her an excuse not to attend.

“Walk with me, Sansa,” Lady Margaery offered. “Around the gardens,” she added quickly.

The future Queen was three years Sansa’s senior, more beautiful than every lady at court with thick but soft brown hair and matching eyes, skin as pale and beautiful as a light summer snow and sweet and kind and precious. She was too good for Joff. She was too good for anyone; she was a perfect, beautiful Lady: the envy of every woman in King’s Landing and the lust and admiration of every man. She was too good to be _just_ Joff’s Queen.

“I am ever so delighted to hear the news of your expectancy,” Lady Margaery gushed. “I only hope _I_ can give Joff an heir as quickly as you gave Lord Tywin one. When is your babe due?”

“Seven months,” Sansa replied as they left the Throne Room. They were shocked by the blinding summer light as opposed to the dim giant flames of the Throne Room. Never the less, the girls continued outside, linked in arms, outpacing the guards who were assigned to follow and protect them. “You will give King Joffrey many beautiful, healthy heirs.”

“I would quite like a daughter, but that is wrong of me to say; I should want to give Joffrey many, many sons.”

Sansa remembered what Lord Tyrion had told her about Winterfell. _If I give Lord Tywin a son, he will give me Winterfell._ Winterfell came at the price of never seeing her son again, but she had made the decision already. She loved her mother and brother and Winterfell. She _knew_ her mother and brother and Winterfell. She did not know the life that had been created inside her. How could she love something she didn’t even want? She would hand her babe to Lord Tywin and ask to be return home to Winterfell within the week. It meant Sansa would have to neglect all feelings she felt towards the babe if it meant she would give it up. She hoped it would be easy not to love the child forced into her by Lord Tywin, but it got harder not to care for it with every passing week.

“I pray to the Gods you have many sons _and_ daughters.”

“And I for you. Though I do not need worry; I am but one daughter of four and my own mother was one of five daughters and five brothers. I do not know how my Grandmother was brave enough to have _nine_ children when I already am frightened at the prospect of one. Would you like to give Lord Tywin as many children as nine?”

Sansa laughed. “I am like you; I am frightened to give him _one_.”

She worried about what she had said now, and when she went to look upon Margaery’s expression, she saw nothing but agreement and content. By then they had reached Margaery’s Grandmother’s wooden cover: overlooking the Blackwater Bay beside the stony wall and gardens, all of their lady’s of waiting standing in a row, consisting of Margaery’s cousins and friends from Highgarden mostly. Sansa was used to stares from people at court, their whispers and their jibes, but it did not mean they no longer affected her.

“Lady Sansa!” Olenna Tyrell announced upon Sansa’s arrival. “Please, come sit. A lady in your position should not be on her feet too long. Would you care for cakes and summerwine?”

“No thank you; Lord Tywin does not think summerwine is suitable for me. Cakes neither.”

“ _Nonsense_ and I won’t tell that old fool if you won’t.”

With a smile on her face, Sansa reached over for a cake. She did not ask to what flavour of cakes they were, merely biting into it, enjoying the succulent, sweet taste the honey and sugar provided her with. The summerwine tasted marvellous too.

“How are you enjoying pregnancy, Sansa?”

Sansa swallowed her drink and cake. “It is an honour to give Lord Tywin a child despite the discomfort.”

“My worst pregnancy was with Margaery’s father Lord Mace, _Gods_ did I want it to be over. Then they put the fat little oaf into my arms and I knew the trouble had been for something. It was an heir for my husband mostly, but still my son. Despite how insufferable they turn out, you always love your children, even if the father is an old, brutish man like Tywin Lannister. Ignore all promises he’s made you child; you’re the one in control of this babe. _Not him._ You carried the babe for nine moons. _Not him_. He’ll want to call the babe Sedion or Gerold or Gerion or Tyran – or if he’s as arrogant and proud as I know him to be, he’d call the child Tywin. Do not allow this. The babe is as much yours as it is his – more so in my opinion. Name the child what you wish, but do not be fooled if you think Lord Tywin would allow you to call the heir to Casterly Rock Eddard.”

Sansa could feel the back of her throat burning. She did not know why she felt upset over Lady Olenna’s words. She knew from the start Lord Tywin would not allow their son to be named Eddard. Sansa knew he was the one in control if she wanted to be returned to Winterfell. It didn’t stop her from blurting out the next words, shaking with sobs.

“But he’s my son!”

Margaery got up and put an arm around Sansa, Olenna smiled at her sweetly. “Poor child. Poor, sweet child. Life would be so much easier if you were a foolish child, but you’re not. You know the world and you know the ways of it too. But remember this: _you are in control. Not him._ They once said Lord Tywin ruled the Kingdoms but his first wife ruled Lord Tywin. Your fertility is your power, Sansa. Use it to your advantage.”

“ _How_?”

It was Margaery who answered, not Olenna. “Don’t give him any children.”

She was confused. “What?”

“Pregnancies often contain disasters. Don’t give him a child, _ever_. We can have this one taken from the world, and in a couple of months claim to be with child again. The cycle will continue until the man is old and grey and lost more children than he’s had cups of wine. Once he’s dead, say you are expecting his child. It does not have to be his and Casterly Rock is yours.”

Lord Tyrion had told her to give Lord Tywin a child, even if it was not his. Lady Olenna told Sansa to never give Lord Tywin children until after his death. Sansa trusted Lady Olenna more, but Sansa doubted she had the strength inside of her to continuously kill her babe without detection or take the potion Sansa had heard about: moon tea. What forced Sansa to take Lord Tyrion’s advice over Lady Olenna’s was Winterfell. By suffering pregnancy, Sansa got Winterfell, she got home and she got mother and Robb: her family.

“I cannot do that,” Sansa whispered. “I cannot kill my children.”

“Well,” Lady Olenna said, “could you love his children?”

“Maybe.”

“By refusing my idea, you’ve proved that you already do. You will love your children, no matter what they do or how they turn out or who they become. It is every mother’s fault.

Sansa had heard that said from Cersei. If Cersei could love the spiteful monster than was Joffrey Baratheon, Sansa might be able to love the sweet little babe that she and Lord Tywin would give to the world. _But if I love this babe too much I cannot part with it. I cannot go to Winterfell. I can have other children. I cannot have another home._


	6. vi

Anyone who Sansa ever spoke to was indignant that the life inside her would grow to become a strong and healthy male that even she herself began to call it a ‘he’ when in conversation with someone. When in conversation with Lord Tywin, Sansa would always carefully choose her words, and one day she noticed that Lord Tywin never referred to their babe as ‘he’ nor ‘she’ merely ‘it’. Sansa decided this was due to him not having too high an expectation when it came to their first born. She asked him why, eventually.

“Because I do not know,” came his response. “Though I am glad you have mentioned it. I was curious to whether you would come to an agreement with me: if the child is a boy, I shall choose his name. If it is a girl, you can make the decision.”

What other option did Sansa have but to agree with him? “Yes, my Lord. H-Have you chosen a name for him yet?”

“Not as of yet. Do you have any names you are fond of?”

She wasn’t sure if he was asking about for a son or daughter. In truth, Sansa had never given it much thought. “I-I suppose I like the name...” She trailed off quietly.

“Continue,” Lord Tywin pressed.

“The- When I was a little girl my father – my father would always speak so highly of his sister and I was just... I know you won’t allow it, my Lord – it was stupid of me to mention it-”

“-Lyanna,” Lord Tywin finished.

“Lyanna,” Sansa whispered in return. “Or Arya.”

 _Never Catelyn. He’d never allow me Catelyn._ “Because of Lyanna Stark, thousands of men died.”

“It was foolish of me to even suggest it, my Lord, I apologise.”

“Brave,” he corrected. She asked him how it was brave. “They you would have the courage to ask this of me, despite having speculation of my attitude towards it. I will not allow Lyanna for the sake of Cersei; it would not do well to shame her in this way. Your sister Arya’s dog mauled my Grandson.”

“Foolish of me,” Sansa echoed.

“You have seven moons until our babe is born. Mayhaps by then a better name would have come to your mind.”

But the conversation was never mentioned again.


	7. vii

Cersei recalled how she had never once wanted a child until she discovered that Jaime’s seed had quickened inside of her, creating Joff. She’d killed Robert’s babes, but the only one she kept was the one she knew to be of her brother’s seed. It was the same for Myrcella and then Tommen and the Queen Regent loved all three of her children, loving them from the moment they had quickened inside her. Lady Sansa did not love the babe that grew inside her, that was detected instantaneously. It was not insulting to Cersei, nor was it surprising but she _knew_ that once the babe was placed inside Sansa’s arms, she’d fall in love with it. Every mother cannot help but love her child when they are placed into her arms for the first time. Sansa would see that eventually when Cersei’s brother or sister was handed to her, drenched in blood and the lady herself.

Cersei prayed for it to be a boy – not for the heritage of Casterly Rock or her father – but so she could have Jaime back. Sansa and the Stark hostages in exchange for Jaime and Lannister hostages and Winterfell’s isolation from the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa would do her duty and allow them that.

They would have pretty children, not as strikingly beautiful as herself and Jaime, but Sansa was young and pretty and Lord Tywin could have been considered handsome when he was a younger man. Sansa was not as beautiful as Lady Joanna had been. Lady Joanna’s looks had contributed greatly to the beauty of the Lannister twins. Not that it mattered if the child was beautiful or ugly; somebody would wed it for Lord Tywin’s wealth and lands and name. It would never be alone in the world. Anyone could be hideous, but if they had wealth and claim they would soon be wed. Her brother Tyrion was an exception to this; a filthy, monstrous second son repulsed all Lords and their daughters from across Westeros to the extent Tyrion was thirty and unwed as opposed to Cersei who was beautiful and wed at eighteen. Wealth and power made women blind and their father’s lustful for more.

There wasn’t much a richer man in all of Westeros than Lord Tywin, but even that could not bring Lady Sansa to approve of him. He was not regretful or angered or insulted by this; Sansa had wed him and bed him and in six months would give him an heir. She had little more importance than that to his family or to him, but even Lord Tywin would admit that having a wife that loathed him became tedious over time and repetitive, but he would not go to extents to woo her. That was not in Tywin’s nature.

His attempts to show kindness to his wife never prevailed. When he gave her a necklace she never wore it. When he presented her with new gowns she only wore them when in his company. The only gift she had ever truly enjoyed from him was the permission to write to her mother and though she had never received word from her in return, it was still the greatest gift _._ Even the babe inside of her did not give her the happiness Tywin wanted to see in his wife.

In true, the only reason he gave her gifts was to see her content with life, for when she smiled and enjoyed herself he found himself recollecting times spent with Joanna and her laughter and sweet words and willingness to please Tywin. He hoped he could have the happiness of Joanna with Sansa one day though he was not fond of the Stark girl nor did he love her, but there was a certain satisfaction Tywin received after being in her company and conversing with her. He did not know if there was a word for it exactly, only that on the eve of the last full moon of the month, he gave her a gift that made her smile.


	8. viii

Lord Tywin had summoned her to his solar – not an unusual request but one that hadn’t happened to late at night before. She had finished dining with Lord Tyrion, had her handmaidens drew her a bath when she got a knock on the door, declaring Lord Tywin wished to speak with her at once. Sansa dressed into her evening gown and walked with the guards to the peak of the Tower of the Hand where she knew her husband’s chambers were. Politely she knocked before entering and he admitted her entrance.

Lord Tywin was seated in a golden chair before the fire, scratching a dog between the ears. Her mouth gaped open at the sight of the puppy that did not stand higher than Lord Tywin’s knees even when he was seated. The dog bounded to Sansa, the guard hastily shutting the door on them as Sansa dropped to her knees to show the dog affection. The puppy was the colour of honey, barely older than a few months old but with huge dopey eyes Sansa lost herself in, ticking the sides of its face and kissing its little black, wet nose. She looked up at her Lord husband who had moved from the chair to in front of Sansa, studying her with his head cocked to the side – which the puppy imitated – with a glint of something in his eye his wife just couldn’t detect.

“She’s yours,” he declared.

“Thank you,” Sansa breathed. “So much.”

“She is yours to walk, train, feed and name,” he added in an undertone. “Yours completely.”

Sansa realised this dog was the only thing that was truly hers now. Even herself; her body was property to the Realm. Her emotions and thoughts and land and claim and name all belonged to her Husband. Was this dog a trick to play on Sansa? She could not believe it to be so; the puppy was harmless, extending onto its back legs, placing its paws on Sansa’s shoulders and eagerly licking her face.

“I chose her from the litter; the biggest and the strongest... And the _friendliest._ ”

“She’s beautiful. Thank you my Lord.”

He muttered something and nodded his head, the breaths of the dog louder than his own voice. Sansa was too enamoured with the dog to listen to Lord Tywin though. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had shouted his words, Sansa wouldn’t have been in focus.

“What shall you name her?” Lord Tywin repeated, louder than the dog this time and sharper to Sansa.

She knew before she even had to think about it. “Winter.”

“Winter,” Lord Tywin echoed. “I surely shall tremble when I see _her_ coming.”

It was the first time Lord Tywin had ever shown any sign of having a sense of humour in front of her before. She had never once seen him smile, laugh or pass a joke. He was an immensely despondent man. Despite this, Sansa found herself laughing at Lord Tywin’s joke and a spread of curiosity wavered through her. This man was old, grey and closer to death with every passing heartbeat yet he would act as if he had only hours to live and there was an important mission that needed to be dealt with before his time was over. It must be a sad life, Sansa mused, without a laugh. Even in Sansa’s situation she could still appreciate humour and entertainment but Lord Tywin on the other hand was a different matter entirely. Something awful must have happened in his life to drain him of humour and contentment and not be able to appreciate the fine art of living. Sansa hoped she could help him. Sansa hoped he could help her.


	9. ix

Across the Seven Kingdoms at a small holdfast called The Twins which protected the Neck, separating where the North fell into the Riverlands. It was guarded by an ancient man named Walder Frey and his hundreds of sons, daughters, granddaughters, grandsons, nieces and nephews bastard and trueborn alike. A frosty chill covered the grasses of the fields and froze the horses into the warm retreat of their stables. The Stark men remained in their tents and at night they sat round the fire. It was relaxing that there was no fighting to be done, they could lay down their weapons for the few days while they attended the wedding and not have to worry about being attacked in the middle of the night or going into battle the proceeding day. Lady Catelyn Stark found none of this a luxury while her family was scattered around Westeros like crisp summer leaves, all falling off the same tree to locations nobody knew (or heard of).

She received a letter from her daughter the morning of the wedding, but Robb had kept it from her for too long. He said he didn’t want to give her false hope or upset her in case it wasn’t Sansa’s hands or the words of the letter came about to be true. Catelyn demanded the letter from her son.

_Mother,_

How long had it been since somebody other than Robb had uttered those words to her so sweetly and gently, with such love and affection every letter tugged a heartstring? Even reading it in her daughter’s hand gave Catelyn _something_ to go on. One piece to give her hope for all this war.

_I write to you with delightful news. I hope you and Robb and Arya are well and that the upcoming winter has not been too harsh on you. Down here in King’s Landing we were blessed with a glorious harvest from the Tyrell’s with corn and barley coming in by the day! The sun is still warm and beautiful and I am grateful for the safety I feel here at King’s Landing. The Lannister’s have been generous hosts to me. I have been serving well to return their favour._

Her daughter grew wiser at King’s Landing but it seldom gave Catelyn any hope. Arya was not in King’s Landing with her. So where was she? Surely she had not been murdered or the Lannister’s would not have allowed Sansa to mention her and the letter was so obviously closely inspected and written under the close eye of somebody that Sansa had not simply misplaced her words. _No._ Arya was lost and this was Sansa’s pretence of believing that all was well. Sansa was strong – Catelyn saw it now.

_Lord Tywin has allowed me to write to you and I am so truly grateful that he has permitted me to! I write to inform you that he and I wed recently, and that I have been blessed by the Gods that I am with his child._

“No,” Catelyn whispered. Her hand covered her mouth in shock. “ _Sansa_.” But she continued reading.

_I pray that it will be a boy! How I long to serve House Lannister and provide them with golden heirs for Casterly Rock. I strive to have as many healthy children as you and father and how I hope to see you all well again. Please do reply to my letter soon. I also hope to write you with the news of our child._

_Love always,_

Was there anything more truly heartbreaking than for a mother to read the words of her daughter, thrown into a perilous situation where the only solution is to lie through the words she writes in a letter? It was truly Sansa’s hand, she was truly with child. It was not that it was Lord Tywin’s child that bothered Catelyn so (though she would not refuse to admit that Sansa wedding a man of similar age with her own Grandfather was not in the slight disturbing), but it was that Sansa would _never_ have willingly given herself to that man – or any Lannister man at that – if she had not been forced to do so. Sansa was forced to carry the babe for a man that had forced himself on her, taken pleasure in her innocence and claimed her for his own for the sole purpose of giving her more weights and ties to House Lannister. If Catelyn was not so frightened she might have vomited or screamed or wept.

On the morrow she would write back to Sansa with a clear head.

On the morrow, however, Lady Catelyn would be dead.


	10. x

_Roslin caught a fine fat trout. Her brothers gave her a pair of wolf pelts for her wedding._

It was news Lord Tywin would not disagree to be joyous. Robb Stark was dead, the army of the north was reduced to nothing and Roose Bolton was now the Warden of the North. The only enemy left to face was Stannis; the dragonspawn across the Seven Kingdoms was of no threat while she was across the Narrow Sea. The Lannister’s were victorious once more, Lord Walder had proved himself a true supporter to the crown and the House and no more blood would be spilled. Jaime too was close to be returned to him. Sansa would not leave King’s Landing once a son was given to him. He was gladdest with the latter two but he was not sure _why_ the fact that Sansa would not leave King’s Landing made him as pleased as the news of his first born being returned to him. In truth, he was fond of her; she was a beautiful young girl who had proved to be fertile and was now the Lady of Winterfell. Their second son, Lord Tywin decided, would inherit the north from Roose Bolton and the same son would wed one of Bolton’s daughters. The future was straightforward. The present was not.

It fell to Lord Tywin to present Sansa with the news that her mother and brother were dead. He had watched her check the skies for ravens for word of her mother and now no letter would ever come to her. Lord Tywin listened to Sansa’s words, how she would claim to have disowned herself from her brother because he was a ‘traitor’ the same as her father, but he had heard the strain in her voice and the guilt in her eyes as she said it. They were still her family regardless of what they had done. He did not expect her not to grieve for them.

Lord Tywin entered Lady Sansa’s solar. She was seated by the window, her hand on her flat stomach, her pup curled up on her legs. Winter noted Lord Tywin’s arrival in the room, raising her head at him, her ears flicked back.

“Do not rise,” Lord Tywin instructed. “I have news for you.”

She searched his face for clue, but Lord Tywin was expressionless as ever. _Better to get it over with. Grip the blade and bite your tongue._

“We received word from Lord Walder Frey this morning. At Lord Edmure’s wedding feast, your brother and your mother were killed as well as their army.”

He was not sure if she believed him; he could not tell from her face. She was paler than usual, the sun shone from her face leaving her with a sallow and gaunt look to her. Had she always looked so grim?

“My m-mother and brother were traitors-”

“-They are still your mother and brother.”

She wanted to assure him that she did not care for them, for the safety of her life, but the words caught in her throat. He would not punish her for showing grief, for loving her brother who had taken Jaime captive or the mother who had taken Tyrion captive. According to Cersei, Sansa had openly grieved for Eddard Stark; weeping in her chambers, screaming when Joffrey took his head. Joffrey had punished her for that. Lord Tywin would not.

“I shall leave you,” Tywin whispered. “But for their sake, think of the babe.”

She said something to him in a low and quiet voice barely audible but for a few choice words. Tywin wished to stay with her and provide her with comfort, but he knew that today was not the day she would give it to him. With a hand on the brass knob of the door, he turned it and flung open the door.

“Wait-” he heard her call. “My Lord.” Was this the comfort she needed? Would she ask the old man to take her in his arms and hold her as she wept? “Do – Did they say anything? Any last words?”

Shaking his head: “No.”

“Did they leave anything behind?”

“I can have your brother’s longsword returned to you if you wish. Any belongings of your mother’s too if they were not destroyed.”

“Who – Who did it?” Lord Tywin didn’t know. “Did you tell Lord Walder to do it?”

Something had given her the courage to ask him this, and she knew that it was improper when she hung her head. Lord Tywin lingered for a moment.

“War is war, Sansa. Do not tell me it was better to kill him on a battlefield with a long and painful death than it was to do it at dinner where it was over quickly.”

She did not reply to him. He did not expect her too. Tywin watched her breathing, cuddling Winter closer to her body as the pup padded up close to her face. Sansa buried her face in Winter’s fur and as the door closed behind him, he heard the first of her sobs.


	11. xi

“Your wife Lady Sansa, has she left her room yet?”

“It has been but a week.”

“A week too long. Robb Stark was a traitor to the realm, he wanted to murder my son. How can you stand by and justify the actions of the sister _and_ daughter of a traitor? She should not grieve for them; she should celebrate as the rest of us are. That bitch should be grateful for what we have done for her; we could have killed her and sent her pretty little head back to her family as a message to Robb Stark to withdraw his army. Ger her out of her chambers and have her swear her allegiance to Joff before the court on the morrow.”

“ _No._ Regardless of her family she is still my wife. If she wishes to grieve for the death of her family, let her be.”

His only daughter studied him. “Have you grown fond of her?”

“She is my wife. I do not have to justify myself to _you_. Perhaps if you were fond of Robert Baratheon we would not be in this situation.”

Cersei paused, her wine cup barely inches from her lips. Her eyes glimmered with the flames of the torch. “Just what are you inferring?”

“Never you mind,” Lord Tywin snarled.

“Joff’s wedding is in four months, the Martell’s arrive in King’s Landing at the same time. You need to straighten your priorities by the time Joff weds that Highgarden slut and the snakes infest the Red Keep. Sort your wife out and pray that she gives you a son; the sooner she gives you an heir to Casterly Rock the sooner we can bargain her off.”

“When she gives me a son for Casterly Rock I shall need to give her a son for Winterfell.”

Cersei frowned. “Make the son heir to both. Give his first son Casterly Rock and his second son Winterfell, or do you wish to keep her around and make her your whore for longer?”

“Do I look like Tyrion to you?”

“Pray that your _son_ does not or you may find yourself in need of another heir. If your child is cursed with the same deformity as Tyrion, find it in your heart to put it out of its misery and drown it in Blackwater Bay and do not welcome it into your family. I will not have another brother taint the family name.”

“Focus more on finding a wife for Tommen if you wish to help protect the family name.”

“And how does _my_ son concern you?”

“He is of my blood. My blood runs deep within his veins as much as yours.”

Cersei cocked her head to her side. “We aren’t like normal families, are we?”

“Define _normal_.”

The Queen Regent smiled, holding her cup into the air. “To Sansa’s unborn babe. How will it make you feel, father, to know that your child will be closer in age with its mother than the man and wife who made it?”

“You say that like it is a bad thing. Sansa is fertile, she is giving me a child. I do not see how age should concern itself in our marriage.”

“It might not do to you, but it does to your wife and the whispers of court.”

“If I worried about the whispers of court where would I be? I once told your brother that the lion does not concern itself with the opinions of a sheep. What matters now is of no importance, what matters later in life: our legacy, the future Lords and Ladies of Casterly Rock is all that matters. The judgment of court will not matter in a century’s time when House Lannister continues to be the wealthiest and most feared house in the Realm. Sansa plays a large part in that and it is about time you and Joffrey respect that.”

“As you say.”


	12. xii

Tyrion visited her a week after Lord Tywin told her the news. She had wept for days; starving herself off food until it came to the point her handmaidens were forcing her to eat, almost pushing it down her throat. _Think of the babe! Think of your health! The babe!_ Why should she do anything for House Lannister anymore after what they had done? Lord Tywin had called it war, Sansa called it unjust.

He was the first visitor she allowed in her room. She was sat by the fire, nursing a cup of water. Sansa still wore the same gown from three days ago when her handmaidens had pushed her into the bath and scrubbed her hot and raw, when Grand Maester Pycelle had personally examined her to ensure both she and the babe were healthy. The babe was, must to Sansa’s displeasure.

“They told me you were not eating, Sansa. Lady Margaery told me you like orange cakes.”

“Lemon cakes,” Sansa corrected bitterly. “I like lemon cakes.”

“My apologies, I will send for the servants to bake you more.”

Lord Tyrion was an ugly stunted man and it did not help Sansa’s condition when he same and sat beside her in front of the fire. Her courtesies she was taught by her Septa so long ago at Winterfell still haunted the back of her mind, and she tried to be a gracious host to the good son who joined her in her chambers, but it was hard to accept his company at the time.

“You look well,” he tried.

“As do you, my Lord.”

He offered her a smile. “What happened to your mother and brother _was_ terrible, but my father informs me he told you it was for the good of the war. I didn’t know your brother, but he was a good and brave and honourable man if he would fight the Seven Kingdoms to avenge your father long after his death and return you and your sister to Winterfell. Your mother on the other hand, I travelled with your mother. She was brave and she was strong like I know you are,” at this point he took her hand.

When she swallowed the water she had nursed in her hand for so long, it felt sharp as if she was consuming the fire of a thousand dragons and the scream of a thousand victims.

“I don’t want this child. I don’t want _his_ child.”

“I know,” Tyrion whispered.

“You told me he would let me go back to Robb and mother if I gave him a son. Now he will never let me leave.”

“He might,” Tyrion reasoned. “You could go to Casterly Rock.”

“I don’t want to go to Casterly Rock!” Sansa claimed, her voice high and scratchy with grief. “I want to go to Winterfell and I want Robb and mother and brother, Arya, Rickon, Bran and Jon! I don’t want this _stupid_ dog!” she gestured to the pup Lord Tywin had given her a few weeks ago. “ _I want to go home_.”

“I know,” Tyrion echoed.

“No you don’t know, or you would have helped me leave a long time ago. I’m nothing more than a prisoner here to give Lord Tywin babies. I am worth _nothing_ anymore.”

“Yes you are, Sansa.”

“No I’m not!”

“Would your mother want to hear you speaking like this?” Lord Tyrion asked. She could hear the anger and frustration in his voice, the desperation to help her. “Your mother... She would not want to see you give up on life _especially_ when she knew that life grew inside you.”

“Mother didn’t know. If she knew she would have returned my letter.”

“Your mother was fierce when it came to protecting her children. She would want you to do the same for yours.”

“I don’t love this child, I can never love this child. I pray that it will be a girl and I pray that I shall _never_ give Lord Tywin sons, and then you can be Lord of Casterly Rock when he dies and order Joffrey to let me go home to Winterfell.”

“Roose Bolton rules Winterfell now until your son comes of age. Roose Bolton killed your brother. Do you want to see the man who murdered Robb Stark as Lord of Winterfell until your son reaches six-and-ten?”

Sansa stiffened. “No.”

“ _No_. Then you will stay in King’s Landing and you will _pray_ that you give my father a son who will take Winterfell from the Bolton’s. Do you understand me?”

He was not threatening to Sansa, he was definitely angry with her, but it was not an anger Sansa was used to. It was a protective anger: an indignant anger Lord Tyrion spoke to her with which emphasised their situation. Sansa felt safety in his words and could sense a kindness and care he felt towards her.

“Help me,” Sansa croaked, her voice indignant with pleads.

“I will,” he reassured.

“Be a father to my child. Be a better father than Lord Tywin. Don’t let it be like him. Don’t let him hurt it.”

“I won’t.”

“Swear to me.”

A small smile played on his lips. “You’re as fierce as your mother.”

She proved herself: “ _Swear to me._ Swear by the Gods you will protect my child.”

Grief had changed her; she was as fierce and strong as her lady mother. She might not have loved the babe inside her at first, but the Gods knew what she felt for it now was stronger than love. The ‘red wedding’ as it was later known to be called, was supposed to tear the north apart. In truth, it only made Sansa stronger.


	13. xiii

It was Lord Tyrion who coaxed her out of her room after a week of grief. It appeared he had planned it with her handmaid Shae, who had insisted on bathing Sansa early that morning to the point where the soft skin on her body was scrubbed raw, and she was dressed in a fine gown of cerulean silk. Blue had always been her colour; it made the colour of her eyes shine like the flame of a candle, and the string of diamonds round her neck only accentuated them more. Never had she worn finer silk or stones, but Sansa supposed she was the Lady of the West now and she could not dress like a little girl any longer.

Lord Tyrion was a twisted stunt of a man, but it bothered Sansa no longer. He was not nice to look upon, but it was nice to be in his company. _I would sooner have married him. At least he would be kind to me. He is young and he is brave and kind, not like his old father._ Lord Tywin was handsome in his youth, there were hints of that in his current age and while Lord Tyrion was an eyesore, Lord Tywin was not. Perhaps if Lord Tywin was more like his son, or Lord Tyrion was as handsome as Lord Tywin in his youth – or even Ser Jaime or Joffrey now – Sansa would have preferred the marriage. But she was no longer a shallow person, and even if Lord Tyrion was as beautiful as his family, he was still part of _that_ family: the Lannister’s who had killed her mother and father and brother and scattered the rest of them around the Seven Kingdoms: Arya missing and believed dead, Bran and Rickon most likely dead and Jon on the Wall. She thought of Jon oft, she hoped he knew about Robb. She wanted to write to him.

“Could I write to Jon?” Sansa asked of Lord Tyrion.

They were out in the open, the sun blazing down at them causing Sansa more discomfort than Tyrion. With a company of four Lannister guards, the disgraced son and wife of Lord Tywin descended the great Red Keep of King’s Landing and down the rocky bath to the Blackwater Bay. Sansa longed to feel the fresh, salty water lap over her feet and to sink into the warm sand. She longed for the tranquillity the Bay would provide her with, but there was little peace she would get with four household guards watching her every move.

“Most likely not.”

Sansa had not expected to be allowed. “If Lord Tywin had allowed me to write to – to my mother... He would allow me to write to my brother. Jon is on the wall: a thousand leagues away. What harm will it do me or him or the realm if I write to him?”

“False hope,” suggested Lord Tyrion.

They began their walk down the steep path to the Bay that Sansa had been advised against because of her ‘condition’. She was five moons pregnant; she could _feel_ the babe kick inside of her. It would do it as much good as her to take a walk along the shore of the Bay.

“You can ask him,” he continued.

She would do such thing.

After walking with Lord Tyrion until late noon when the sun began to set familiarly over the great narrow sea and across the Seven Kingdoms to the Free Cities, they returned to the castle this time, Tyrion sent for a wheelhouse for them both. Sansa was grateful; her feet and back ached and head throbbed wildly, but she refused to show weakness to _anybody_ (especially through fright that something may be wrong with the babe if Sansa showed discomfort). But riding in the wheelhouse meant that Sansa had time to relax before returning to the castle and she could think how she could ask Lord Tywin permission to write to Jon. She had not mentioned it to Tyrion since that first time while still in the castle grounds, and he seemed to forget about it when he asked why Sansa desired to call upon her Lord husband so late in the day.

“Don’t be surprised if he says no, Sansa,” he claimed.

She hoped to strike a bargain with him somehow. She had not known until that day how much Jon meant to her. He had always been her half-brother – Sansa had always been very specific about that. Hoping to gain favour with Lady Catelyn, she’d always spoken ill of him whenever in her company, but Sansa remembered the time she’d taught Jon how to court a girl, or the time he chased her round the yard, when they both caught Robb with that girl in the stables and the other times she had not remembered until the ride from the Bay in the wheelhouse.

The sound of the taps on Lord Tywin’s oak door from the guard was louder than the waves at the bay and more frequent than the beats of Sansa’s heart. Sansa was sent away at first, but then summoned later by a guard from Lord Tywin’s door. When she entered there was a strong scent from his room: sickly and sweet like a strong scent and the windows were open despite the weather turning chilly throughout the day, but Lord Tywin looked hot and flustered.

“My lady,” Lord Tywin said slowly. His lady could hear exhaustion in his voice. “You surprised me with your call. Forgive me if I insulted you.”

Of all the things he would apologise for being an insult, this was seldom one she cared much for.

“It did not insult me my Lord; I know you are a busy man with a great deal of work to do to benefit the Realm. My queries are of no importance to you, my Lord, I shall return later.”

Reluctantly: “No... What is it that you require?”

“I was at Blackwater Bay with Lord Tyrion this morning-”

“-You were?”

_He always knows what I’m doing, how does he not know?_

“-Yes my Lord, I wished to visit the Bay where House Lannister had their miraculous victory on when I thought to ask your permission to write to my brother.”

“Your brother? Your brother is dead.”

He was rather abrupt in the way he told her that and he spoke with coldness in his voice she first remembered him to possess when he had frightened her so. How stupid she had been to think he cared for her now that they were man and wife or at least respected her more.

“My – my brother Jon is on the Wall. I only wished to write to him. Would you allow it?”

A lengthy paused passed between them. Lord Tywin walked to the open window, slamming it shut, the silk draping stopped fluttering in the wind and a sudden hotness and smell of sickness empowered Sansa. She caught Lord Tywin’s eye – even across a room she could feel his stare on her. He did not seem ashamed, nor did he care to mention it but there was something about his manner that was abnormal for Lord Tywin.

“I shall allow it,” Lord Tywin said coldly.

“Shall I show you the contents again, my Lord?”

He pursed his lips as he approached Sansa. There was a redness of his face, a bead of sweat trickled down his temple and he gazed at Sansa with a too familiar expression.

“You look rather lovely in this lighting, Sansa.”

A chill shocked through Sansa as he spoke her name – her _true_ name. Not Lady Sansa or My Lady. Just Sansa. It was endearing and scandalous despite that they were man and wife, they had never not greeted one another with appropriate titles; Sansa too frightened and Lord Tywin too proper.

“Th-Thank you, my Lord.”

“Call me Tywin.”

It was not a question. It was a demand. Though she felt uncomfortable speaking his name and the situation they were in, she divulged him that one little pleasure.

“Thank you Tywin.”

His eyes searched her face as he curled his index finger under her chin, tilting it slightly so that she looked upon his face. The green in his eyes were alight in the flames and Sansa could not help but stare into them, as if they forced themselves into and she was being controlled.

Suddenly, his lips were upon hers, but he tasted like sour cherries and the taste repelled Sansa, and when she tried to pull away from him he only held her tighter. It was their first kiss since their exchange of vows in the Sept and neither two kisses had been particularly romantic – this one certainly wasn’t. Sansa could still smell the last woman to have shared his bed with him on him and she had been fooling herself earlier to pretend that the thought had not crossed her mind and that was why he sent her away at first. Did he want to finish what he had set out to do with that other woman before Sansa had interrupted them? She prayed to the Gods he wouldn’t.

As she struggled, Lord Tywin pushed her from him, wiping his lips. Sansa stumbled backwards, stumbling into the table in the centre of the room, watching him like a frightened prey looking at death. There was mockery on his face too.

“You want to write to your brother?” His complete manner had changed. “Get on that bed.”

Shaking her head: “No.”

“You do not wish to write to your brother now?”

“No.”

“Your brother’s sword was sent to us this morning as well as his armour from battle. Lady Catelyn’s trunk was sent to us: all of her gowns, books, pendants, jewels and scents. You long for a connection to them: you can wear your mother’s stones and scents now.”

Sansa was tense; the fabric of her new dress tightened round her body and the diamonds burned her as if truly on fire. Lord Tywin looked murderous. She knew what he wanted and what she would have to do to be given her last connection to her mother and brother. Could she do it though?

“She wrote a reply to your letter too.”

She wanted to read that letter. She wanted to dress herself in her mother’s gowns and wear that familiar scent and touch the outline of the jewels she wore. Lord Eddard had given her most of them for namedays, and Lord Hoster and Lord Edmure had sent many gifts in that form also. Lady Catelyn would have wanted Sansa to have them, and it was not as if what Lord Tywin was suggesting she had not done before.

“Won’t it hurt the babe?”

“No.” Sansa glanced to the floor. “Look at me. Now remove your gown.”

With their eyes still locked on each other, Sansa’s fingers stumbled with the lace backing of her dress. Her hands shaking from guilt and fright, she often missed a string or caught herself in them, but worked as quickly as possible as not to disappoint Lord Tywin and change his mind on giving Sansa her family’s possessions. When the final string was pulled from place, Sansa’s hands moved to her shoulders where she tugged off the blue gown and let it drop to her ankles, her feet swimming in the fabric as Lord Tywin sucked through his teeth, lustfully staring at his wife’s body while Sansa looked all around the room _but_ at her husband.

“Now undress me,” he commanded.

First she removed the chain he wore around his neck, delicately placing it on the side. The gold chain would feed a village for an entire winter. The next thing removed was the badge of the Hand, which was placed beside the golden chain. Her hands still shook as she unbuttoned his jerkin, and he moaned with pleasure as she tossed it on the floor, his doublet and chemise following shortly after. All three were a plain colour of brown: a great contrast to the bright colours the court wore and even Sansa who was not renowned for her extravagant fashion wore better pieces than her husband. That did not matter as she unlaced his breeches, exposing his hard cock and he seized her shoulder, a gasp emancipating Sansa’s mouth as he lead her to bed.

Lord Tywin lay down first which surprised Sansa somewhat; she was usually accustom to being on the bottom so that Lord Tywin could assert his dominance even in the bedchamber, but this time he indicated that she should ride _him_ so she did so, straddling him as if mounting a horse just below his penis and with a sharp intake of breath, Sansa rose slightly and lowered herself onto his penis, resisting the urge to cry out in pain, rocking backwards and forwards, bowing her head so that she could not show him her discomfort in fear of disappointing him. There was no disappointment when he reached his climax and Sansa was free to lie beside him and rest.

Minutes passed, Sansa watched Lord Tywin’s chest rise and fall with exhaustion. Disgusted by her actions, feeling no better than a girl from a brothel who had only bedded this man for something in return, she asked for what she wanted.

“C-Could you give me what you promised, my Lord?”

Yawning: “That defies nature.”

“My Lord?”

The closest sound to a laugh played on Lord Tywin’s lips. “They were all burned at the Twins.”

“B-But you said-”

“-I say a lot of things, Lady Sansa,” he remarked, fingering a strand of red hair from her face. “You are a fool for believing that I would allow you such luxuries when you have been an ungrateful wife to me, not allowing me to your bed, locking yourself away for the past week, depriving my child of the health and food that it needs to survive. Clearly, you cannot be trusted nor appreciate opportunities when they are presented to you. You could have an easy life with a high status through our marriage, yet you choose to waste that honour. You are truly a stupid little girl, now leave my bedchambers and get out of my sight. You are a disgrace to the family name. I would sooner that _whore_ bear my child than you; at least she could tell the difference between the truth and lies.”

Stammers were all that came from Sansa’s mouth as she struggled to come to terms with his words. Dismissing her once more, Sansa stumbled from the bed, her cheeks wet and hot with tears, she pulled on her gown, not bothering to lace it at the back and fled from the room in tears, closing the door tight behind her.

One of the guards at Lord Tywin’s door stopped her, offering a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Sansa’s eyes for her. Sansa knew the man to be not much older than Sansa, an orphan from the Westerlands: his parents murdered by Lannister men but he himself had been spared as a child to squire for Lord Tyrion until he became old enough and trusted to guard Lord Tywin’s door. His name was Loric, Sansa knew, his hair gold like a Lannister but eyes blue as hers.

“Th-That woman who went to my husband before me. Who was she?”

“Some whore from one of Lord Varys’ brothels, my Lady,” said the other guard from the door. Sansa knew him to be ruthless and go by the name Henrich.

“Would – would you know her if you saw her?” She asked between sobs.

“Yes my Lady.”

Sansa didn’t know if it was the hatred she felt for her husband, the guilt or the grief from losing her family or perhaps all three that it possessed her to make this awful request to the guard.

“ _Kill her and give her body to my husband_.”

“Lady Sansa?” Loric said softly.

“Do it!” Sansa snapped, fresh fat tears leaking from her eyes. “And if Lord Tywin asks who killed her, tell him it was me. And tell him – and _t_ ell him,” the tears leaked fatter and hotter from Sansa’s eyes and stung like a dozen swords in the heart, “winter is coming.”


	14. xiv

She was growing stronger, more confident in herself and her position. Lady Sansa was able to use the status as ‘wife of Tywin Lannister’ to her advantage. She was untouchable – even to Joffrey who would not dare mock Sansa for the downfall of her family. Tyrion had heard the rumours she had one of her husband’s whores murdered, and Tyrion was too frightened to learn the answer. Sansa was still a child: only fourteen-years-old, yet she was forced to carry her own and carry her pride as the Lady of the West. Tyrion admired her.

It was like he said in the small council meeting that very day:

“You cannot help but admire how far the girl has come from the shy little lady to a brave young woman.”

“I would rather she be the shy little girl she once was than the woman she is now killing whores and sending their corpses to my bedchambers.”

“What would you do, my Lords?” Inquired Lord Varys: the Master of Whispers and the Spider of Westeros. “Lock her in her chambers for the next three-and-a-half months until she births an heir?” Varys was right as much as it annoyed Tyrion to admit it. “She is still a young girl. Perhaps you suggest to Lady Margaery to involve Lady Sansa in preparations for the wedding.”

“Involve Sansa in the wedding for the boy who murdered her father? There will be assassins jumping out the pie and the jesters would slit Joff’s throat with every musical number,” snapped Cersei. “Send her to Casterly Rock, father. Send her away from us.”

“You overestimate the girl. She is not a trained assassin, nor is she a threat. Lady Sansa overcomes grief-”

“-By murdering _whores_.”

The word ‘hypocrite’ fell on Tyrion’s tongue, but they would not travel any further. Though Tyrion was not frightened of the fourteen-year-old girl the Queen Regent, Hand of the King and Master of Whispers seemed to be concerning themselves about, Tyrion was more worried for the poor girl’s sanity. A child should not have to send men to kill a woman all because they bedded their husband. That was what Lord Tywin claimed. It did not strike Tyrion to believe Sansa would have somebody murdered for only the reason that they bedded her husband – who Tyrion knew she despised. He was certain there was more than Lord Tywin was letting on.

“Don’t speak of it,” was all Lady Sansa said when Tyrion approached the matter.

“We’ve all killed people, Sansa: myself, my father, Cersei had her husband’s bastards murdered and some were only babes. Joffrey, your brothers, your father, your _mother_. Everyone is a killer. You are no worse than any of them.”

Sansa bit her lip. Her stomach swelled beautifully under her green gown, Lord Tywin had her dress made from the Riverlands so that the bump of her stomach was accentuated nicely and profoundly as if to warn other men off and to assert Sansa’s authority and status, but the girl beside him was not ready to be a mother, wife or lady of a house. She was not ready for anything in truth.

“All she did was do her job,” Sansa whispered. “She didn’t do anything wrong. I was mad with Lord Tywin – not because he shared his bed with another woman, but...”

Tyrion assumed it to be what happened in the Twins, and he took Sansa’s hands. Though they were in the sun, sitting on the grass overlooking Blackwater Bay, her hand was cold and unapproachable, and she withdrew her hand from Tyrion’s reach. He did not find it insulting.

“I care about you Sansa, and it doesn’t do you well to worry about this, not with the baby.”

The girl stared down at her lap. “I wish I had wed you.”

“Pardon?” She repeated what she had said a little louder this time. “I fear I would not be a very good husband, my Lady. I have no lands – not anymore anyway – no claim or House or father to give me gold. I could not make you happy; you would be disgusted by every inch of my body. At least my father is reasonably good looking; he is tall and has all of the limbs he was born with. I fear I would be a disappointment.”

“You wouldn’t be a disappointment my Lord.”

“Your lies are pretty Sansa.”

The sun shone in Sansa’s blue eyes and she pushed back a strand of hair. “What was she like, your mother?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did people say about her? They must have talked about her a lot.”

“They said that she was beautiful and kind and strong, that she loved Cersei and Jaime _deeply_ and myself before I came into this world. My father loved her too; my Uncle Kevan said he actually smiled on the day of his wedding.”

“I’ve never seen him smile. I’ve never heard him laugh.”

“He’ll smile if you give him a son, but don’t expect him to love you.”

“I don’t,” Sansa said, “he doesn’t expect me to love him, either.”

“But he will love your child, as you will love it too.”

She placed a slender hand on her stomach, feeling it rise and fall, and as flesh made contact with flesh, and Tyrion leaned over to touch it too, his fingers brushing against Sansa’s, he could feel his half brother or sister inside there. Its life was as true as either of theirs.

“Has he told you what he wants to name it? We never talk about it.”

“He’ll name a son and you’ll name a daughter. I don’t know any names he is fond of. Do you know any?”

“Eddard, Robb, Brandon, Rickon.”

“ _Sansa_ ,”

“I know,” she whispered. “He won’t allow it.”

Tyrion hoped there might be a way to fulfil one of Sansa’s dreams. Perhaps if they changed the name? If they named a son Edward or Robert she might be allowed. Brandon and Rickon were innocent to the war and fighting, if Lord Tywin were to allow one northern name for the son that would one day inherit Winterfell, it would be either of the latter.

“It’ll be over soon. In two-and-a-half months you’ll present my father with a son who you’ll love and care for and raise and everything will be better for you.”

Sansa was disbelieving him. Life would get no better for her as a result to the babe. Once she gave Lord Tywin a son: an heir for not only Casterly Rock but for Winterfell too. He wouldn’t need her after that. They could bargain her off to another house – perhaps the Martell’s who were due to arrive a fortnight before the wedding. Doran Martell’s younger brother Prince Oberyn might be in need of a wife and who better than the mother to the heir of Casterly Rock _and_ Winterfell? Or perhaps Prince Doran himself might wish to wed Lady Sansa and attempt in producing more children for himself; another heir in case something was to befall any of his children. Tyrion was certain Sansa wouldn’t just be allowed to live out the rest of her days in splendour with such an influence to the son who would one day rule north _and_ west. But what would Sansa do if she knew that? Perhaps she already knew... 


	15. xv

Sometimes Sansa would be enlisted by Margaery to help her with wedding preparations. To count, Sansa had sat in on seven dress fittings and nine councils just to choose what jewellery the future Queen would wear in the Sept and how her hair would be done. All of Margaery’s cousins would squeal with delight every time Margaery tried on a new dress. Sansa wished she could join in on their excitement; she envied their childish squeals and innocence. In truth, all Sansa could think of during these meetings was how relieved she was that it was Margaery wedding Joffrey and not her, but in retrospect, was Sansa’s current marriage any better than Margaery’s future one?

Throughout history, women had wed strangers. Her own parents had wed each other before truly being acquainted with one another. Princess Elia and Prince Rhaegar had not met, neither had King Robert or Queen Cersei, Aunt Lysa or Jon Arryn. Sansa was somewhat lucky she had met Joffrey before they were to wed; that way there would be no surprises for her when it came to that day at the sept and it was revealed to her what a wicked little beast he truly was. She pitied Princess Myrcella though. She had to travel thousands of leagues to Dorne to wed a man she knew nothing of, to a family that hated her own. Sansa would not count herself lucky to have known Lord Tywin though because she knew him and hated him.

Sansa wondered who she might have wed if her family were still alive. Father would have seen through Joffrey and refused to allow them to wed. Perhaps Sansa would marry a Lord from the North, or maybe indeed she might have wed Willas Tyrell. Or their ward Theon Greyjoy... She would take a thousand Theon Greyjoys over one Tywin Lannister any day.

But life was not as simple as that, so Sansa sat back on Margaery’s dress fitting and faked a smile, clapping with the other girls and relishing what would be the most memorable wedding in the Seven Kingdoms.


	16. xvi

In the eighth moon of her pregnancy, her stomach as large and twice as heavy as the ripe watermelons that were carted in from the south daily, Sansa had had enough of the pain and the sickness _just_ for the babe that would never be her own. It would be Lord Tywin’s babe or the Realm’s babe. They controlled every access of her life.

“Did you walk today, Lady Sansa?” Lord Tywin asked her in passing.

Sansa was sweating, her gown sticking to her body and her head throbbed from the sun. It had burned her too and her skin ached, feeling as if a million tiny sewing needles were simultaneously stabbing her.

“Yes my Lord.”

“Did you eat all of the food that was sent to your food this morning?”

The fish, prunes, egg, dates, apple and oats were a daily meal for Sansa and reiterated themselves at luncheon. She was given red meat for dinner with potatoes and spinach and broccoli and beans. Sansa was allowed to drink nothing but water and a glass of goat milk before bed each night. It was all so repetitive and Sansa could not wait until the babe was born and she could divulge herself in the pleasures of the beautiful, sticky, sugary cakes King’s Landing could make. Prince Tommen ate cakes daily and Sansa could smell it on his breath when they spoke to one another. She envied that little boy so much.

“Yes my Lord.”

“Good. Be at my solar for evening meal; we shall dine together tonight.”

Reluctantly: “Yes my Lord.”

But that would not be the first dinner invitation she would receive that night.

Once Sansa was bathed and dressed in a fresh gown from her wardrobe: a splendid thin and light pink frock, she was escorted from her chambers to the Throne Room where she stood in attendance at court once more. Court was short that day and King Joffrey was not in attendance so it was not as excruciatingly painful as it usually was. It finished hours before dinner would be served to the castle, Sansa hoped she could return to her chambers and read one of the books Tyrion had given her the other week, but her arm was taken by the Queen Regent who wore a long crimson gown and a smile on her face.

“Walk with me.”

Sansa nodded stiffly, taking the arm of the older woman and returning to the Iron Throne. It was an extravagant seat: raised above them all, giving the occupant more terror and intimidation than they would on the ground. Lord Tywin was descending it when Cersei took her arm, and Sansa slowed to avoid meeting him at the bottom.

“I am sure your Septa and Mother always told you that pregnancy is a magical experience, didn’t they Lady Sansa?”

“It is an honour to serve House Lannister and give my Lord Husband heirs; it is a duty I am not worthy of, your Grace.”

“You are a sweet child Sansa. Did you know my brother is in love with you?”

Sansa frowned, looking up at the beautiful older woman, whose golden hair tumbled down her back, falling just above her waist. Sansa had once admired this woman. Not Sansa loathed her.

“He follows you around like a lost soul, as if he is a young boy playing at court. Who can really blame him though? You are a truly pretty child with youth and grace and vitality that my brother cannot pull himself from. My father is old and he is weak while Tyrion fervently proves himself otherwise. Now answer me honestly, Sansa: did my little brother force himself onto you?”

Her mouth gaped open as Sansa struggled to speak. How awful that must look, as if she was concocting some lie she had to save herself from.

“No – no! Lord Tyrion and I... Lord Tyrion has been kind to me, your Grace, nothing more-”

“-Oh do shut up you little whore. My father is past his prime: to conceive a child now would be as easy as to resurrect the dead. He cannot be the child of your babe, so who did you lure into your bed to make the beast that grows in your belly?”

“No one, your Grace. No one ever,” tears began to swell in her eye. _I thought giving Lord Tywin a babe would lead me to my safety._ “My Queen Regent, I never did! I swear to you Lord Tyrion and I have _never_! He – he’s a dwarf! I would never – I could never di-disgrace myself so – or Lord Tywin! I swear it to you! Not ever!”

A smile curved up on the Queen Regent’s lips. “Wipe your tears, child; they will only anger your Lord Husband more,” Sansa glanced up to Lord Tywin whom was conversing with Lord Tyrell in slow and hushed voices. He did not once glance over to his wife and daughter. “Now tell me truly why you murdered that _whore_.”

“I-I”

Nobody would believe the truth. Nobody would believe that Sansa only did what she did because Lord Tywin had tricked her into sharing his bed, of making love in his bed. It wasn’t making love; there was no kindness involved in their coupling. If she revealed to the Queen Regent Lord Tywin had manipulated her, Lord Tywin would be angry at her – could possibly put her on trial and kill her once the babe was born. Sansa had been forced into the marriage under false pretences; she would not admit she had fallen for the same mistakes to get into bed with him. Sometimes a lie was better than the truth.

“I was angry with him.”

“Why?”

“Because he killed my mother and brother.”

“Your mother and brother are traitors-”

“-I know, your Grace, but she was still my mother.”

The Queen considered Sansa’s bleats. “You killed a whore because of an event that happened a hundred leagues away?”

Nodding: “Yes your Grace. I’m a stupid, silly girl and I should not-”

Cersei silenced her. “You _are_ a stupid, silly girl,” then she looked down at Sansa’s swelling belly and the Queen Regent put a hand to it. Sansa could feel the babe writhe in disgust in her belly. “Enjoy carrying this babe in your belly, Sansa; when it’s out, my father and the King will scold you for what you did a few nights back, and for your family too.”

The Queen Regent and her good mother stared one another out, Sansa too numb to reply and Cersei too proud to make another jape.

“The Martell’s arrive in Dorne in two moons. Rumour has it you will wed Prince Doran and he will take you to live out the rest of your days in Dorne _if_ a son is pulled from you in two moons. Hope for your sake you present House Lannister with a son; Dorne will be a much better place for you than King’s Landing.”

 _You want me to have a son more than anyone. If I have a son, they’ll exchange me for Myrcella._ Or so the Queen would hope...


	17. xvii

There was beauty to Sansa, Lord Tywin decided. Though she could not hold a candle to the bright fairness of Joanna Lannister, Lady Sansa was certainly a handsome young woman. If something were to befall her in child bed, if another babe was born to them twisted and stunted, Tywin would not give it the same kindness he gave to Tyrion. That was a piteous mistake he made when he was a younger man, possessed with the grief of his first wife. He might never love Sansa, but he could admire her and be fond of her which he certainly was. She may detest him, but he did not. She may detest him, but she would not detest his children. Emotionally the love of a mother stretched great limits but the love of a wife was a different matter entirely.


	18. xviii

The King presented himself to break his fast with Sansa one unexpected day. It was rather late into the morning, a few hours from noon and Sansa had been bathed and dressed, her red hair brushed out and pinned back and food assembled before her. Sansa had wondered why the food that had been set for her was different than the usual blandness it normally was, but when the King arrived in Sansa’s chambers, she felt foolish for not expecting him sooner.

“I feel we haven’t spoken to each other in too long, Grandmother,” how Joff loved to call her that. “Not since your mother and brother were killed anyway.”

“It is always an honour to host the King,” Sansa declared. “Shall I pour you a cup of milk?”

“No. I want _wine_. Ser Meryn, bring me and my Grandmother a cup of wine each.”

“Y-Your Grace! I am not allowed to drink.”

Ser Meryn returned with a cup of wine for both Sansa and Joffrey as Joffrey finished saying: “I am your _King_ and you shall do as I say. Ser Meryn, pour this ungrateful whore a cup of wine and ensure that she drinks it all.”

“I would not like to put risk to my child’s health, your Grace. You are more than welcome to have _my_ cup of wine.”

“I do not want _your_ cup of wine. If I wanted your cup of wine, I would have told Ser Meryn to pour me two cups. Now drink,” he ordered, thrusting a cup into Sansa’s hand. “And drink to my good health and marriage.”

Their marriage was exactly a moon away. Already Lords and Ladies from across the Seven Kingdoms – and even some across the Narrow Sea – settled in at the Red Keep or made their travel to the capitol. They already hosted the Tyrell’s and their southern army and soon they would host the Martell’s who were less than a fortnight ride away from King’s Landing. After the wedding, they would prepare for Sansa’s birth: just three weeks separated the grand events.

Sansa drank the wine as her King commanded it, the taste hot and sour in her mouth and she felt, that with every swallow, she was feeding poison to the babe. But what could she do? If she refused the King, she was too frightened to think about what he would do to her. Lord Tywin would scold Joff later Sansa hoped, perhaps tell him to leave her alone and never speak to her again, but the King would do what the King wanted to do, and if the King wanted to make a four-and-ten-year-old-girl who was expecting a babe in less than two moons drink a cup of wine large enough for a grown man, then he would do it and Sansa would do as she was told and drink the sour liquid.

“How does that taste?”

“Lovely, your Grace.”

King Joffrey helped himself to the food that was set out before them, but Sansa would not find much of an appetite.

“Are you excited for my wedding, Lady Sansa?”

“It is an honour to be in attendance, your Grace. I pray to the Gods every day that you and Lady Margaery will have a blissful marriage and she will give you many strong and healthy sons.”

“Do you truly pray for that?”

“Of course your Grace, as I pray for my family’s health and happiness, an end for the war and a short winter,” Sansa remembered Lady Margaery had told her these, but they had sounded so much better a year ago and from her tongue.

“But there _has been_ an end to the war, hasn’t there?”

Sansa swallowed and she could still taste the wine. “There is still the traitor Stannis Baratheon – and – and Lord Tywin told me about the Queen across the Narrow Sea with the baby dragons!”

“But the traitor from the north who had his body paraded around the Twins with his direwolf’s head sewn onto his body is dead now, isn’t he?” Joff gave her the sickly smile that had before sent her stomach into tumbles. It still did that now, but in a very different way. “Walder Frey saw to that.”

Her bottom lip quivered as the following words stumbled out of her mouth: “Is Walder Frey coming to your wedding?”

“ _Gods_ no,” Joff laughed. “Stupid girl. Grandfather says it would be an insult and a great threat to seat the man who killed one of the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms at our table... _Why_? Did you wish to thank him personally for cutting the throat of you mother?”

“No your Grace,” replied Sansa. “I was merely wondering.”

Joff scoffed, tearing at the burnt black bacon between his teeth. Sansa had not eaten bacon in so long; it was unhealthy and Lord Tywin had refused the cooks to allow her any meat that was cooked in fat. Never the less, Sansa pulled at a piece between her teeth the same way the King did and gloried at the small victory of defying her husband.

“I was wondering when the Martell’s were arriving as well, your Grace.”

She also wondered about this Prince Doran the Queen had told her she would be wedding. Sansa had asked a few people: Margaery and Loras and Shae and Tyrion to name a few, and all four of them had agreed that he was old and rich. If that was true, he was no different than her current husband.

“A fortnight before my wedding. Have you and Grandfather got me my wedding gift?”

“Yes your Grace.”

“Tell me what it is.”

Sansa pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t like to give away the surprise, your Grace; both Lord Tywin and I are excited to see the look of thrill on yours and Lady Margaery’s face when we present it to you at breakfast.”

He judged her to see if she was lying, then rolled his shoulders. “What do you make of Lady Margaery?”

“Lady Margaery?” Sansa was stunned at his question. “Is a smart, beautiful, lovely, kind girl. She will make a much better Queen than I ever would and she has a deep heart and will love you fiercely.”

“Yes... Yes... She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Sansa smiled. “It’s a shame my father couldn’t see this.”

 _It’s a shame your father isn’t here to knock some sense into the monster you’ve become._ “King Robert is greatly missed throughout the Seven Kingdoms. We all feel his death at times like this.”

There seemed to be a grief to Joffrey at that moment: a feature that almost made him human.

“I always sought his affection and approval when I was a boy, I don’t want my son to feel how I did.”

“Of course not your Grace,” Sansa said in a whisper, “I-I’m sure you’ll be a good father.”

“No I won’t. But Margaery will be a good mother.”

Sansa mulled over his words as she tore the strip of bacon she pulled from the plate into even smaller cuts. Silence passed between the King and the Lady of the West and after a while, the King excused himself for breakfast, politely thanking Sansa for being a brilliant host, leaving with his guards and the cup of wine Ser Meryn had bought them.


	19. xix

“Almost a moon’s turn left until your babe is due,” declared Lord Tyrion at dinner. “This _is_ cause for celebration.”

She could hear the sarcasm in his voice. In truth, nobody knew when exactly Sansa would drop the child but Grand Maester Pycelle predicted it to be the first full moon of the year. Joff and Margaery would wed on the first day of the New Year and Lord Tywin’s babe would be born on the day the moon would be at its peak: a lot of pressure for Sansa, but a pressure she cared little for.

They were all gathered in the Queen’s Ballroom for a dinner: Lady Sansa, Lord Tywin, Lord Tyrion, Queen Cersei, King Joffrey, Prince Tommen, Lady Margaery, Ser Loras, Lady Alerie, Lord Mace and Lady Olenna. Though nobody would speak it out loud, they were gathered for it was to be their last night before the Martell’s would invade the castle with their existence. Sansa wondered why they would invite men into their home that they loathed so much until the irony of it all came clear to her and she stopped over thinking it.

The feast was grand: huge chickens, pigs, beef and duck were set out before them enough to feed a party of fifty rather than eleven, all served with vegetables, fruits, breads, olives, cakes, sweet and lemon grass, cakes, pastries and so much food Sansa didn’t know where (or where she was allowed) to begin. King Joffrey sat the head of the table with Lord Tywin to his left and his mother to his right and Sansa was placed between her Lord Husband and his son.

“Water only,” Lord Tywin breathed to Sansa.

According to Tyrion, Lord Tywin was vexed when he discovered the King had ordered Sansa to drink a cup of wine regardless of the child’s health. There was a warmth to the defense Lord Tywin would put up for the unborn child in Sansa’s huge, overgrown belly which made the prospect of giving him a child less daunting when she closed her eyes and almost forgot about everything that he had done to her... to her family...

But Lord Tywin didn’t tell her what she could eat, and instinctively, she reached across the table for a lemoncake. It was the most beautiful thing her taste buds had encountered in her life.

“So Lady Sansa,” began old Lady Olenna. “Do tell me for I love a good piece of gossip: what does old Maester Pycelle believe your child would be?”

Lady Olenna was sat but a seat opposite Sansa. “A boy,” Sansa revealed.

“Of course he will say that; anything to please your Lord Husband – Mace, pass me the duck, thank you Mace. Our Maester at Highgarden predicted every one of my children would be a girl, though he only said that out of spite, mind you. Three children later and only one turned out to be false – though I do sometimes wonder if I gave Highgarden to the wrong child.”

“Grandmother,” Lady Margaery scolded light heartedly.

“Your father knows I mean well. Have you chosen a name for your son yet, Lord Tywin?”

 _Eddard. Brandon. Robb. Rickon._ “I have,” Lord Tywin said, “though I will not distribute it until our babe is born.”

“Not even to your own wife?” Tyrion asked.

Sansa felt uncomfortable sat between them both, and the babe that moved in her belly seemed to feel it too. It moved so viciously of late, as if battling something; there were lots of kicks and thumps and movement in there. Sansa hoped that there was nothing wrong with that.

“Lady Sansa knows that I am to dictate the name of our son as she is to choose one for a daughter if we have one.”

 _He is so sure I am giving him a son._ “I quite like Alysanne-”

But nobody paid her any attention. “Do you not think it fair for Lady Sansa to have a say in the name of the child that she carried inside of her for nine moons?” Tyrion asked.

“Not when the child is the product of my house, _no_.”

“But surely she will have a say in the name! What if you were to give the child a name like Rufus or Ermentrude!” Lady Olenna tittered. “I think our dear King Joffrey has a big enough heart to allow our Margaery to name their child even if _he_ is to only benefit the crown.”

Joffrey – who had been watching the scene with a smile on his face – stumbled when he was addressed. It was as if Lady Olenna had orchestrated it all.

“O-Of course!”

“Well there we go. Sansa dear, don’t let your old husband take claim of your child. Remember it is more so yours than it is his.”

Sansa felt the stare of the Queen Regent boring into her, as if she could see through her gown and skin and see the babe that dwelled in her belly. “Lady Olenna, Sansa is a guest in our home, my own family now, but she is foremost a _Stark_. She has traitor’s blood inside of her. We cannot reward such behaviour.”

Lady Olenna’s laugh echoed through the hall and Sansa realised that nobody had ever defended her as Lady Olenna did.

“Traitor’s blood – that old nonsense! Need I remind you, that King _Robert_ had the blood of the dragon inside of him: the same blood that ran through Aerys and Rhaegar Targaryen yes! I remember that the cousins Aerys Targaryen and Steffon Baratheon played with one another at a time, as did a young Rhaegar and Robert and Stannis!”

“Robert never once used to play with Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“And I never warmed my bed with my Lord Husband before we were married,” Lady Olenna laughed to herself, her son flushing red in the face. “You could argue with me this when you were alive to see it all, but you were not. Your only playmate as a child was your brother Jaime, and though we all know how successful that sibling bonding turned out to be-”

“-Excuse me,” shrilled Mace Tyrell with a laugh. “I fear I am feeling unwell. Loras... Margaery... Escort your Grandmother back to her bedchambers-”

“-I’m quite happy staying here, Mace, but Margaery, Loras, go to _your_ bedchambers – and take Lady Sansa and Prince Tommen and King Joffrey with you also; leave the adults to talk.”

Prince Tommen rose first, tottering over to Ser Loras. Sansa rose slowly, not taking her eyes off Lady Margaery as she rose too, uncertainly. Joff was the last one to leave the room, the five young ones lingering outside the door.

“What should we do now?” Margaery asked in a fun whisper.

“Should we spy on them?” Suggested Tommen with a giggle.

There was a sound of clatter in the room and Joff’s hand was on the handle in an instant, muttering about his mother, but he took his hand off when Margaery took his arm and offered him a sweet smile.

“My love, let us walk amongst the gardens; how I love to spend my time outdoors at evening time.”

Uncertainty passed through Joff like a wave hitting the rocks, but he agreed to leave with Margaery. Ser Loras took Prince Tommen to his bedchambers and Sansa loitered outside the door, wondering if she should go back in. It was her that caused the argument after all... perhaps she should go in and see it out.

But the fatigue of carrying a babe wore her out, and she called out to Ser Loras to wait for her but he had not heard her. Sansa was not surprised. No one was around to hear her call for help anymore.


	20. xx

Sansa didn’t meet anyone from the Martell family until their third day in King’s Landing.

Her Lord Husband had told her they were insulted by the replacement of Prince Doran with his younger, ignorant brother Prince Oberyn who had brought along his whore. He said the word whore with such distaste Sansa would have laughed for the irony. He had seven bastard daughters apparently. Lord Tywin failed to mention the Prince’s intelligent or his knowledge of the world. His arrogance and impoliteness and bastard daughters was what occupied Lord Tywin’s mind. Sansa gave little regard to this Prince Oberyn – or Red Viper – she was pleased he had replaced Prince Doran; she would not have to wed him.

Prince Oberyn had sought her out in court. Sansa was not hard to miss; her vibrant red hair the nature of House Tully and her eight moon swelling belly was hard to miss. Everybody said she was blessed to have such a swelling belly. Sansa wanted them to know what it was like to carry it round for as long as she had, perhaps then they wouldn’t find it a blessing.

The Red Viper was draped in golden gowns the colour of the sun. It bared his fine, toned chest and stunningly brought out the colour of his eyes and the darkness of his hair. He was quite beautiful, she considered as his hand made contact with her bare arm, and he gave her an honest smile as if he was pleased to be acquainted with her.

“My Lady, I offer you my sincerest condolences for your losses.” There was a part of Sansa that stopped her from lying to Prince Oberyn, so she pursued her lips and let him continue to speak to her. “We have both lost loved ones to the Lannister’s.”

 _Lord Tywin killed his sister as he killed my brother: through the sword of another man._ “It was dreadful that your sister died, Prince Oberyn-”

“-Walk with me in the gardens, Lady Sansa; there are too many eyes and ears in the court for me to bear. Too many spiders sewing their webs,” so he took her out in the gardens, their arms entwined. “Alright, I think it is safe to speak here.”

 _It is safe to speak nowhere._ “I hope you had a safe ride to the capitol, Prince Oberyn.”

“That I did, Lady Sansa. But I am not here to discuss my ride to the capitol. Your brother: the young wolf, the King in the North... Too young to face such a fate. You must be angry to have to share a bed with the man who gave the orders.”

Flushness filled Sansa’s face. Prince Oberyn hated the Lannister’s. Sansa hated the Lannister’s. But she would not trust him.

“I-I love Lord Tywin.”

“As I love him too,” Prince Oberyn’s eyes dropped to Sansa’s belly. “You shall have a daughter; I’ve seen the way the belly droops. There is a girl inside you.”

 _I hope not._ “I hope you find King’s Landing to your taste-”

“-I do not. The people are unkind and the city stinks of shit and I can hear my sister’s wails echo through the halls of the castle every time I lay to rest. I cannot imagine you are happy here – you do not need to answer me – but I can offer you a way out.

When you give Lord Tywin a son, Dorne will be waiting for you. Songs were sang to you of wedding my brother Doran, but there are other men closer to your age. He has a son – he is not heir to Dorne, but a Prince held in high regard: Quentyn.”

“I-I am sworn to House Lannister-”

“-In Dorne you will not have to recite these lies, sweet child. You are the wife of Lord Tywin Lannister, the mother to his child. You are the Lady of Winterfell: the Warden of the West. You have power but Lord Tywin and the Lannister’s muffle you with it in your sleep. In Dorne, your power could... relish.”

“Relish?”

“No more can be said until you are safe inside the boundaries of Dorne. We have friends across the Narrow Sea. _Family_ across the Narrow Sea who would be grateful for such connections.”

“Family?” Sansa did not follow.

“Distant... More or less...” Sansa looked to her feet, or to the hem of her red satin gown that fell over her feet. _I dress in red; I truly am a Lannister_. “You don’t have to make any decisions now. The wedding is not for ten days, your birth not until a fortnight after. We will wait in King’s Landing until such a time Lord Tywin releases you and if you bear him a son. What would you say?”

Become a part of a new family? Or was it more fitting to suggest that she would become a hostage of a new family? All the Martell’s wanted her for was her title: Winterfell. Winterfell was hers... It would go to her son. _But by which father_?

“Sleep on it,” Prince Oberyn suggested, brushing his lips against Sansa’s hand.  “Until another time, Lady Sansa.”


	21. xxi

Sansa was not in attendance for the royal wedding;for on the morning of the regal ceremony: the first day of the year, as her gown was being pulled over her wide body, she doubled over in pain, stumbling off the stool in front of the looking glass. Water leaked from her as if it was raining inside her body. She was giving birth.

She had not expected it. The babe was not due for another fortnight. _It cannot come today! Joff will kill me..._ Attention would be drawn away from the wedding for this moment. Joffrey wanted the attention. Sansa could not allow Margaery not to have her moment of fame and glory that she had awaited her entire life. Sansa insisted that she was fine, but the midwives who arrived pushed her back into bed and ordered her to rest.

“Tell my Lord Husband... Tell him _not_ to come.”

“Not to come?” Repeated one of Sansa’s handmaids. Frieda was her name. She was from the East.

“Yes. He cannot miss today...”

 

The pain was not awful in her first hour of labour. Grand Maester Pycelle gave her milk of the poppy and she only felt sleepy. She would not allow sleep to take over though; that could be dangerous. The sound of the bells from the city kept her awake. She listened to them, as regular as a heartbeat. She imagined it to be her babe. She thought of their names as they struck.

_Mother. Father. Robb. Arya. Brandon. Rickon. Jon. Lady. Mother. Father. Robb. Arya. Brandon. Rickon. Jon. Lady._

She was visited by Lord Tyrion, but his visit was dreary.

“The wedding...” Sansa slurred.

“Can go on without me. I am not wanted,” Lord Tyrion took her hand. “I shall be with you.”

In truth, she was pleased of the company even if it was his. She did not want to be alone for this, but had long ago resigned herself to the truth that she was alone in this world.

“I want my mother,” Sansa whispered.

He kissed her sweaty temple. “I know.”

“He killed her.”

“I know.”

"Tywin killed my Mother."

"And your brother."

“What if I die?”

“You won’t. I won’t let you.”

 

Pain overcame her as she retched into the basin beside her bed. The pain was like nothing she had ever experience in her life. The small dose of milk of the poppy could only numb the pain, it could not stop the shocking amounts of excruciating pain ripple through her at any given moment. Sansa wanted to be strong. She didn’t want to be weak, but when faced with the pain, all she could do was scream. Take it like a woman. Be as strong as her lady mother and as brave as her sister.

 

According to Tyrion, Sansa had slept for half of an hour, but when checked, Sansa was still not ready to birth her child, but the pain had subsided and no longer overcame her so often. She shared a flagon of water with Tyrion who told her he preferred wine.

“What are they doing now?” Sansa asked.

“Receiving gifts no doubt.”

“I shall gift my husband later,” Sansa said.

“Not much later I hope. I don’t like to see you in pain.”

 _You always see me in pain, my Lord. Only you choose not to see it._ “How do people do this?”

“With bravery. You are a Stark. You endure.”

“I don’t know what I am anymore.”

“You’re Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. They may have wrapped you in a crimson cloak and called you Lannister, but you are a Stark. Never forget that.”

She never did.

 

As the hours passed, Sansa neared closer to her body being ready to push the babe out. For that, Sansa didn’t want Tyrion present. Regardless of the closeness they had felt together, she would not let him see what was going to happen.

When she insisted that he would leave, he kissed her dry, sour lips, coated with crusted blood where her teeth had bit into in poor attempt to minimise the pain. It was a sweeter kiss than his father.

“I shall see you later and when I return, you will be a mother and you’ll hold your son or daughter in your arms.”

 _And then I’ll be discarded._ She offered Tyrion a smile as she watched him waddle away from her not knowing that it would be the last time she saw him.

 

Sansa woke later in the night to the extent that the golden sun outside her chamber window had risen and the sky was covered in a shining shade of pink. It was beautiful. Life was beautiful. The noises that her children made in the crib beside her was beautiful.

“ _Lord Tywin has just left M’Lady, we have to leave now,_ ”

But this wasn’t her chamber she was in, and the voice that roused her early in the morning was spoken to Sansa in the soft and comforting bed of the Red Keep. Sansa didn’t know where she was...

She was moving, there was a strong smell of salt invading the air. Was she on a ship? When she rose to look, she was shook with soreness, screaming out in pain. Footsteps rang in her ear, but they were slow and not concerning. Purple robes came into her view first, swinging around the ankle embroidered with silver patterns. It was a man; he wore trousers and a thin moustache curled above his upper lip. She knew this man... She knew this man well. He was thin – he was long. Everything about him was long. Except his name.

“Lord Baelish...” Sansa slurred. “Wh-Where am I?”

“Rest,” Littlefinger commanded, seizing Sansa’s shoulders and lowering her back onto the bed. “You’re safe now, Sansa.”

“Lord Baelish-”

“-Call me Petyr. I’ll explain more when you’re-”

“-No! Explain to me now.”

He looked uncertain, but waved his hand to the crib beside her. Though he would not allow her to rise, he permitted her – with his assistance – to lean over and see her children. Sansa remember Lord Tywin’s words: a son and daughter, the son born first and he had named him Gerold. Perhaps he had named their daughter too. It wouldn’t matter. If he wasn’t here to raise their children and if he wasn’t here at all... He could not stop her from doing anything she wanted.

“They’re lovely,” Sansa whispered.

“A son with hair stolen from the sun and a daughter with hair redder than a sunset. They are not _his_ children anymore, Lady Sansa. They are _yours_. They belong with their mother.”

“They are mine,” Sansa echoed. “Nothing’s ever been mine.”

“Your son and daughter are.” He smiled as he told her as if he was as grateful for that fact as she was. “You must never have believed that I would be your knight in armour to save you from King’s Landing.”

“You...”

“Yes, I. Who would have thought it? Your Ser Loras could not do it. Neither could Prince Oberyn or Quentyn Martell. You would not have been happy in Dorne. You were their wager for the Dragon Queen. He would have put a few children in you, maybe even have loved you, but once Daenerys Targaryen crossed the Narrow Sea you would be a prisoner once more. With me you will be a person. Your son and daughter will live long lives at Winterfell once this war is over. Joffrey is dead. King Tommen sits the Iron Throne or will do come his coronation. You are your children will _never_ have to return to the capitol. You’re safe now Sansa. You’re safe with me.”

_I am never safe._

“Why?” Sansa croaked. “Why save us? Why help us? Lord Tywin will catch you.”

“Lord Tywin believes me to be a thousand leagues away in the Vale. Always keep your foes confused. If they are never certain who you are or what you want, they cannot know what you are like to do next. Sometimes the best way to baffle them is to make moves that have no purpose, or even seem to work against you. Remember that, Sansa, when you come to play the game."

"What... what game?"

"The only game. The game of thrones." He brushed back a strand of her hair. "You are old enough to know that your mother and I were more than friends. There was a time when Cat was all I wanted in this world. I dared to dream of the life we might make and the children she would give me... but she was a daughter of Riverrun, and Hoster Tully. Family, Duty, Honour, Sansa. Family, Duty, Honour meant I could never have her hand. But she gave me something finer, a gift a woman can give but once. How could I turn my back upon her daughter? In a better world, you might have been mine, not Eddard Stark's. My loyal loving daughter... Put Joffrey from your mind, sweetling. Dontos, Tyrion, Tywin, all of them. They will never trouble you again. You are safe now, that's all that matters. You are safe with me and sailing home."

_I am never safe._

“You should eat some food,” he suggested. “I’ll have a servant bring you down some bread and cheese and fish – the Gods know we have enough fish to last an entire winter.”

She accepted his offer and watched him leave but she did not rest as he also told her to do, for the instant that the door shut behind Lord Baelish, Sansa pulled herself out of bed and dragged herself to her children.

Lady Sansa reached a hand over to her babe, she didn’t know which she was reaching out to touch, but one babe caught her with their finger. When the sun shone brighter through the window, it was the son with the golden hair who had reached out to her while the red haired daughter slept softly, gurgling in her sleep beside the brother she grew with for nine moons. They were beautiful, they were both so beautiful.

Where her son was golden and bright, her daughter was dark and beautiful. Both child’s eyes were a shocking blue, and would remain so until their late ages.

Fat tears leaked from Sansa’s eyes as in between her thighs she still felt hot and sticky from the liquid the babes were born in, and her body clammy and hot too, but baths could wait another day, as could sleep. She held her son in her arms, kissing him softly on the cheek and for the first time in too long, Sansa felt truly happy.

As the rhythmic waves of the ocean carried them to desired safety and her daughter awoke, wincing at the brightness of the outside light, Sansa plunged them all into darkness by extinguishing the eternal flame of a candle.

 

 

 

 


End file.
